Whether Cheerful Or Somber
by Hekate1308
Summary: People who never thought they would spend Christmas with Sherlock but do it anyway.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I have decided to once again publish a Christmas story where I post one chapter per week. **

**I am nuts about this season, and I want to get as many people in the Christmas mood as possible. **

**This time, the theme is "people who never thought they would spend Christmas with Sherlock". **

**It will make more sense once you read the story. Hopefully. **

**The stories probably won't be in chronological order, but I'll explain if it comes to that.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Sally Donovan had long since grown accustomed to the fact that she would always be the one who was stuck with the Christmas shift.

She was neither married nor had a significant other (not that she'd had one during the years she'd been seeing Anderson, but at least he had wished her a Merry Christmas before going home to his wife – these days, he was barely civil) and therefore it was logical that she should be the one sitting around in the Yard on Christmas Eve.

All in all, it wasn't so bad; at least she would be able to spend Christmas Day with her sister's family, and she didn't really want to visit their party this evening anyway.

But it was so utterly boring.

She had had this shift for a few years now, and she was once again telling herself that wishing for a murder just so she could do something different than sitting at her desk and reading files was wrong.

She knew someone who wouldn't see any problem with it, of course –

Or, rather –

She sighed as she realized that her thoughts had once again led her to Sherlock Holmes, who had risen from the dead two months ago, cleared his name and was back at 221B with Doctor Watson.

Naturally, he was also back to solving crimes, which meant that DI Lestrade was employing him even more often than before.

And just like that, just like nothing had changed, Sherlock Holmes paced around crime scenes and insulted police officers once more.

Only that something had changed.

It wasn't simply her opinion of him, although that had been changing for a long time, probably from the moment he seemed to jump from the roof of St. Bart's; no, there was something else as well.

Something she was sure not many people had noticed, aside from Sherlock Holmes'... friends.

It wasn't that she thought herself more clever than most, or even a better police officer than most; but, since she had become a Sergeant, one year after DI Lestrade had met Sherlock Holmes, she had seen him often enough to – well, not directly to know him, but to know a few things about him.

And something was different.

She couldn't pinpoint what, exactly; she couldn't say if it was his posture or the look in his eyes, but she could say for certain that he was acting differently.

Not that people like Anderson, who still insisted on calling him a psychopath (albeit not in public and never to his face, these days) would notice that the viciousness had gone out of his insults, or that he was more patient with witnesses. Or that he took care not to grin too brightly at crime scenes. Although he still enjoyed himself.

It might not be much, but it was enough to make her blame herself even more for what had happened years ago.

She had hated him. She wouldn't deny it.

But that gave her no excuse for ruining his life.

And, looking back, she had to admit that she had no evidence at all to implicate Sherlock in the kidnapping. All she'd had was a suspicion and years worth of resentment.

She had convinced herself that she wanted justice, when all she truly desired was revenge. So she dragged Lestrade to the Chief Superintendent.

And then Sherlock Holmes was dead, and nothing could change that.

Or so she had thought.

For three long years, she carried this burden, the burden of his death, well aware that no one, not the Chief Superintendent, not DI Lestrade, and – most importantly – Doctor Watson would believe her change of heart, that she truly regretted Sherlock Holmes' death.

At first, she hadn't. But then –

Learning that most of the cases he'd solved held up.

Learning that there were many clients who proclaimed he hadn't been a fraud.

Watching countless graffiti pop up around the Yard.

And slowly, over the course of months, she had realized what she had done.

She had destroyed a good man, even if he would have denied that he was one.

She had not only destroyed his, but Doctor Watson's life as well.

She had destroyed the reputation of the man she'd always looked up to, and who, to his credit, still tried to be polite to her, after everything.

Sally had not told anyone that she would do anything to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life; she hadn't told anyone that somehow, the consulting detective had become a ghost that followed her around.

She had slowly withdrawn from the Chief Superintendent as well as from Anderson; the one only wanted proof that Sherlock Holmes had been a criminal, and the other – well.

Soon, she had realized that withdrawing from them meant that she had precious little friends left. At the same time, she had noticed that she kept looking for a tall man in a dark coat to appear at crime scenes, a man who would never show up again.

He came back, however. Sherlock Holmes once more defied everyone's expectations and came back, and she was happy, relieved, but couldn't say a word, because nobody would believe her.

At least she hadn't cost him his life.

In a way, this year had made her happier than she'd been for a long time, she reflected, just as she realized that it was past three am and that she was alone on the floor.

She suspected that her colleagues were in the cafeteria, celebrating; she didn't mind. She had come to appreciate solitude in the last three years.

No one judged you when you were alone. At least no one but yourself.

She decided she had wasted enough time and concentrated on her file again –

And then she had the sound of the elevator arriving on her floor.

Had one of her colleagues forgotten something?

She didn't look up, not at first; most likely whoever had anything to do at this floor at this time of the night would ignore her and mind his own business.

As it turned out, it wasn't to be.

Because suddenly, a voice of someone who hadn't spoken to her directly for three years and two months said "Sally".

She stared up at the man who had just greeted her – far more politely than she would have expected, far more politely than she deserved – and swallowed before answering, uncertainly, "Sherlock."

He looked back at her, and she wondered if he could deduce her regret. A question she would never have asked herself before – before his death.

Somehow, she believed that he could.

It wasn't that his eyes softened, not exactly; but they got as close to it as she could imagine them to.

The next words to come out of his mouth were as to the point as ever, though, and she took comfort in the familiarity.

"The Stenson robbery file is on Greg's desk, I trust?"

She nodded and watched him walk towards the DI's office. Since he had returned, her boss had only been "Greg" to him, and if that didn't prove that Sherlock Holmes had changed, she didn't know what did.

He might be working at – she looked at her watch – almost 4 am on Christmas Eve, was it really that late? It was already Christmas Day –but she couldn't say anything against that.

She didn't expect him to take further notice of her; he was probably going to take the file and leave.

But once again, she had underestimated him.

She more felt than heard moving towards her; he certainly hadn't lost his ability to walk without making a sound.

When he arrived at her desk, he stood still.

She looked up to find him staring at her again, and there had been a time when she would have complained or called him "freak".

Now she simply returned his gaze.

She didn't know how much time passed; maybe a few seconds, maybe minutes; but she was just starting to wonder if he would eventually get tired of her and leave when Sherlock cleared his throat and began, "I do not know if you are aware that your colleagues are in the cafeteria".

Formerly, her answer would have been an eye-roll, but now that she had come to see him as a human rather than a psychopath she realized he was trying to be considerate.

"I know" she said. "But I am here, so I might as well get some work done. And I'm spending tomorrow at my sister's anyway."

She didn't know why she told him. He had most likely deduced it already anyway.

He nodded, then looked down at the file in his hand.

She couldn't keep herself from stating, "You could have looked at it after the holidays".

He frowned, but there was no malice in her voice, and after a few moments, he simply answered, "Greg had the case on his mind".

"I see" she replied, even though she didn't until she remembered that a few days ago, she had overheard the DI telling Gregson that he and Doctor Hooper were invited for dinner on Christmas Eve at 221B, and that they would probably spend at least part of the 25th there too.

And they had indeed been working on the Stenson robbery case for a week now, not making any progress. She had considered it to be above Sherlock's notice –

Looking at him browsing through the file, she suddenly realized that it was. He was apparently confident that he could solve the case in the five minutes it took him to read it. And she had no doubt that he would.

Sherlock had come to Scotland Yard in the middle of the night, when he had been sure no one was around, to solve the case so DI Lestrade could enjoy the holidays.

She had to swallow, and the consulting detective looked up.

Sally cleared her throat.

"Do you want me to send a car to – "

She stopped and waited for him to continue, and he said, "Richard Coulston."

"The second victim?"

"He staged the robbery, with the help of a friend, I assume, but I don't have enough data to be absolutely sure. He wanted to appear rather early as a victim so no one would suspect him."

She nodded because she was convinced he was right. She quickly called down to send a car to arrest him and could have sworn that, as she looked back at him, there was something like surprise in his eyes.

He put the file on her desk.

"I will text Greg in the morning".

He had almost reached the elevator by the time she called out, "Sherlock – "

He stopped but didn't turn around, and she found that she didn't know what to say. There was so much she wanted to tell him; that she was sorry, that she didn't expect him to forgive her, that she would never forgive herself, that she shouldn't have believed Moriarty's life –

But all she managed to say was "Merry Christmas, Sherlock".

He nodded, and without turning around entered the elevator.

A few minutes later, she decided to go down and wait for Coulston's arrival. She might as well do something productive.

Half an hour and an angry criminal being dragged to a cell later, she returned to her desk to find a cup of non-alcoholic Christmas Punch on her desk and smiled.

One of her colleagues hadn't forgotten about her.

Only as she raised the cup did she see the note it was standing on.

_Merry Christmas, Donovan.  
SH_

**Author's note: Happy third of December. **

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: It's Mike Stamford's turn, and it takes place before the series. **

**I don't own anything, please review. **

If there was one thing he hadn't expected when he became a teacher, it was this.

However, he had never paid much attention to what he might have been expecting, so he wasn't as confused as he could have been.

And at least he didn't have to spend Christmas Eve alone.

His parent had passed away a few years ago, and he didn't have many close friends – one of whom had invited him to dine with his family on Christmas Day, so he wasn't going to spend all the holiday alone in his flat and anyway, he didn't want to complain. He had a job he liked, he had friends, in short, he had everything he wanted.

And it couldn't hurt to grade a few papers on Christmas Eve.

That he'd forgotten part of them was a minor setback, but at least he could enjoy the Christmas lights on his drive there, and since almost no cars were on the streets, it wouldn't take long.

As he had suspected, the labs and offices of St. Bart's were deserted.

All but one.

He almost didn't notice it, too intent on getting back home and grade the last papers before celebrating with a nice glass of red wine.

Yet, in the corner of his eye, he suddenly saw a speck of light in the surrounding darkness.

Thinking that someone must have forgotten to turn it off, he decided to do it for them.

As it turned out, nobody had left the light on, for the simple fact that someone was in the lab.

Someone Mike had never seen before.

It was a man around thirty, thin and tall, wearing a suit, intently looking through a microscope.

Mike stood in the door, surprised.

He knew almost everyone who worked at Bart's – and this man didn't seem to belong here, for some reason.

In fact, looking at him, so completely focused, slightly shivering even though it wasn't that cold, the light from the ceiling only highlighting how thin and pale he was, he almost didn't seem to belong to the human race.

Mike shook his head; this was ridiculous. He'd simply ask the man what he was doing here. He had no doubt that he'd have an explanation – he couldn't imagine anyone breaking into a lab at Christmas Eve to experiment – and then Mike could go back to grading the papers, his curiosity satisfied.

He cleared his throat, but the man either didn't hear or decided to ignore him, so he stepped fully into the room and walked over to the desk the man was working on.

Next to him there was a file, and Mike glanced at it.

He was surprised to find that it was a police file, on a death that had taken place a few days ago. He even recognized the man's name because Molly Hooper, the nice new pathologist, had told him about the autopsy in the cafeteria. There had been some difficulties on finding the cause of death.

He cleared his throat again.

This time the man reacted.

He looked up and Mike was taken aback by the anger in his eyes, but only for a second.

Because, once he had taken the time to study the man's face –

He looked all but angry. In fact, he looked like he had the weight of the World on his shoulders, like he expected Mike to challenge his presence.

He tried to hide it. Somehow, Mike was sure that he would have succeeded if anyone else had stumbled upon him. That wasn't to say that Mike considered himself a good judge of character; he simply took the time to really look at a person before he talked to them.

This train of thought led to him smiling and saying, "Good evening, I'm Mike Stamford. And you are..."

Just for a second, the man seemed shocked. Then he recovered and answered, "Sherlock Holmes".

Silence filled the lab. Mike felt that he shouldn't ask for explanations, so he waited.

A moment later, the man added, "I am solving the Weston case for the police".

At the time, Mike didn't realize the strange wording – "for the police", not "with the police" – and nodded, whatever fears he had harboured before gone. No one would consider using this explanation. It was far too unbelievable to be used by a burglar.

"Molly Hooper told me about it. Have you figured out the cause of death yet?"

At his introduction, the man had seemed shocked; now, he looked surprised. Almost as if he hadn't thought Mike would believe him.

The man cleared his throat, and his face became an impersonal unreadable mask.

"Nicotine. I can't believe the police overlooked it; it isn't the easiest to trace, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't have paid attention to it. Since there was no weapon involved and a healthy man was found dead in his flat, locked from the inside, one would suppose they would consider everything..."

He trailed off and studied Mike, and the teacher had the strange feeling that this man – Sherlock Holmes – was looking right into his soul.

"Not a doctor – but evidently studied at Bart's, you're far too comfortable in this place not to have been here long – teacher then. Of course; there's a stain on the second finger of your right hand that indicates you wrote a lot in the past few hours, since if you hadn't been busy, you would have washed your hands – you have been grading papers. Single, parents deceased; no siblings, but there has to have been a relative you were close to, since you are wearing a rather cheap watch that you would have replaced if it hadn't been the gift of someone who was important to you – the watch is at least ten years old, but you are still wearing it, which suggests the person you were close to died, otherwise they would probably have given you a new one by now; therefore, you have no family left; nonetheless cheerful at this date, therefore you have friends, one of whom has most likely invited you to dinner tomorrow."

All of this was said so quickly that Mike needed a moment or two to comprehend what Sherlock had been talking about.

Once he realized, he answered, "You are right. Almost. The watch was a present from a cousin who died almost nine years ago".

It had been an accident, and Mike still lighted a candle for him whenever he happened to have the time and pass by a church.

Sherlock murmured "There's always something" and turned back to his microscope, obviously thinking the conversation was over.

Mike decided that it wasn't.

"So you are working with the police?"

Sherlock looked up again and frowned.

"They were not able to establish the cause of death. This will not do. I have decided to rectify their mistake".

He sounded so certain, so sure that only he could solve the case that Mike couldn't help but stare at him.

Especially since he had finally realized why the man was shivering.

He might not be a practicing doctor – he certainly hadn't treated patients since he graduated, being a teacher suited him just fine – but he recognized the hunger in Sherlock's eyes and the tremor for what it was.

Sherlock was experiencing withdrawal symptoms. Mike suspected that he wouldn't be allowed to work with the police if he was still taking drugs, so he must have quit. Not that long ago, but not just now either; the withdrawal symptoms would otherwise be too bad for him to stand in the lab.

He felt more than saw Sherlock tense and decided to say nothing.

"And, do you have an idea?"

He was not being polite; he was genuinely interested what this strange man could have found in a lonely lab on Christmas Eve.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before answering, "nicotine".

That explained why the police hadn't yet established a cause of death. Nicotine was difficult to trace.

It didn't explain why Sherlock was here at this time, though, rather than being cared for. He was obviously clever, and the police certainly could use someone who figured out people's life stories by looking at them; but – he was here on Christmas Eve, experiencing withdrawal symptoms, and no one seemed to care.

At least no one had come in during the time they had talked, which suggested that he was indeed here alone.

Sherlock was writing something down, obviously thinking that Mike was going to leave, but the teacher couldn't find it in himself to do so.

"And the case prevented you from celebrating, I gather" he said next.

Sherlock looked up. He gave Mike a confused look.

"Celebrating?"

If he had been talking to anyone else he'd ever met at Bart's, Mike would have been certain he was being made fun of. But Sherlock – he was genuinely confused on why anyone should think he was celebrating.

"Christmas?" he asked, "as you correctly pointed it, this is no day to be alone". Sherlock frowned.

"I fail to see why a date set by the Christian church in order to facilitate the pagan's acceptance of Christianity should be of any significance to me".

Somehow, Mike had the feeling that "Because it's Christmas" wouldn't be an acceptable answer, so he said nothing.

"The work is important" Sherlock added, and Mike understood that for this strange man, solving a murder when he should have been cared for and helped through withdrawal, it was, more than anything. He couldn't say that he understood him completely; he loved being a teacher, but he couldn't imagine spending all his time teaching and doing nothing else – what Sherlock's words were clearly implying – but he was glad that there was something to keep Sherlock away from drugs, something he valued more than the next high.

However –

Spending Christmas Eve alone, and not expecting anyone to think of him on Christmas Day, must be depressing. He refused to believe otherwise. It was Christmas.

And somehow –

He couldn't say why, but it seemed that Sherlock was more comfortable now than he had been when he'd first spoken to him, and it probably had something to do with Mike not challenging his presence, accepting his explanation, not asking about the obvious withdrawal symptoms.

He couldn't say why, but it made the teacher feel good about himself. He'd always liked people to be comfortable when he was around.

And he didn't think Sherlock had many people he was comfortable around.

Despite the younger man not believing in celebrating Christmas, Mike decided that he might just have done a good deal today.

And then he made another decision.

"How did you figure out it had to be nicotine? Or did you make as many tests as you could before you found it?"

They way Sherlock's head shot up and the twinkle in his eyes as he started to explain why nicotine had been the only logical choice told him he'd made the right decision.

He chose to grade the papers he'd taken with him from his office in the lab, keeping Sherlock silent company, once he had finished his explanation. The other man didn't comment on it, in fact, it looked like he'd forgotten he was even there, but Mike felt that he hadn't.

He left only when Sherlock texted the freshly-made Inspector he was apparently working the case with and who, Mike understood, would come by immediately, whether it was Christmas or not.

The younger man only mumbled something under his breath when he told him he was going home, but he did look up from his phone when the teacher stood by the door and said, "Merry Christmas".

He didn't reply, not with words; but he stared at Mike, surprise written on his face, and nodded.

Mike smiled and left.

Driving back home, he reflected that it hadn't been a bad Christmas Eve after all.

And certainly not a lonely one.

For both of them, he hoped.

**Author's note: This... happened. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Something different – there won't be much Christmas cheer, and it might get a little dark. **

**I don't own anything, please review. **

He hadn't celebrated Christmas for years. He'd never seen the point. The Christian church had deliberately chosen the date of a Pagan holiday in order to convert people easier; what did it have to do with him? It didn't matter that his mother had always insisted on celebrating. He didn't have many good memories of her anyway.

And yet –

He would rather not have to spend it in a small room in – wherever he happened to be.

Maybe he was below ground; there were no windows, the only light coming from the weak lamp on the ceiling, and only for a certain period of time.

What bothered him most was that he didn't remember how he'd got here. He usually noticed when someone snuck up on him, and as far as he could recall, it had been a normal evening, he had been tracking down a drug dealer he had to get rid off –

As far as he could tell (and during his life, he had learned to measure time simply by feeling it pass, one couldn't always afford the luxury of a watch) that had been about two weeks ago, which meant it probably was Christmas. Not that he cared, but still –

He was tired of being imprisoned. He was getting bored. He had other things to do. Like seeing if that drug dealer had got away and he would have to start tracking him down all over again.

Concerning his cell, for lack of a better word, he'd quickly found he hadn't that much to complain. He'd slept in rougher places, and he had a mattress and got enough to eat and drink.

But he couldn't deny that he wanted to get out, and rather sooner than later.

He heard footsteps outside and sighed. Looked like the warden was bringing him his food.

He hadn't yet said a word to him, only scrutinized him with his strangely piercing eyes, and he didn't know what to make of him.

He was experienced enough to realize he was making himself smaller than he actually was; that he was wearing contact lenses to hide his eyes' true colour; and that he had bleached his hair.

Other than that, though –

He had kidnapped him, but he gave him food, there wasn't anyone he could ask money from, he certainly hadn't tried to anything, and that just left him wondering why he'd captured him in the first place.

He never talked. They never talked. He simply dropped the tablet with food and water right in front of him and left. He had thought about pouncing on his captor once he'd turned his back, but he couldn't imagine that someone who had managed to kidnap him of all people would not be armed. And there might be others. It wasn't worth the risk.

They never made eye contact, either; or, rather, his captor looked at his face, his shoulders, his forehead, but never into his eyes while he was staring in his face, wondering why the guy was scared.

What could he possibly read in them?

He didn't expect anything different today. After it had happened a couple of times, he had given up hoping for an explanation.

He hadn't thought that today would be the day something happened.

His captor kept standing in front of him instead of turning around and leaving, once he had set down the plate, and eventually, he looked up.

Only to be confronted with the man's eyes.

Yes, definitely contact lenses. His eyes weren't normally green, he was sure.

At least he knew now what the guy hadn't wanted him to see.

They were calm and composed. For the most part. He didn't think many people would have realized that underneath, there was a storm brewing, that this man was dangerous, capable of anything, and at the same time feeling strangely helpless.

Maybe the information he'd gleaned would give him some advantage. Perhaps he could get out.

"John Clay is under arrest."

He winced, because he couldn't help it. The hit would have brought him quite a lot of money. It was a pity that –

Wait, why did this guy care? Why did he tell him? Why did he want him to know?

He looked down at the floor, then up again, determined not to let show what he was thinking.

"Who?"

If he hadn't known any better, he could have sworn the man looked disappointed.

"There is no need to pretend, Tobias Marshall. I know you were hired to kill him".

Tobias Marshall stared at the man. Few knew his real name; fewer knew he was a hit man.

Who was this guy?

"I – "

"Please, don't insult my intelligence. You were following him. I was doing the same, and I needed to keep him alive so he could lead me to the rest of his network before I had him arrested."

The guy shut his mouth so abruptly that Tobias suspected he had revealed more than he had wanted.

"So you kidnapped me. Good plan. What happens next?"

His heart beat faster as he asked, because, he realized with surprise, he was scared of dying. He hadn't thought he was, not anymore, and yet he was shivering.

The man raised an eyebrow.

"John Clay wasn't the only one I found some information on" he answered calmly. "I know you have been working for the Torton family. Tell me everything you know."

He laughed, because the mere idea was ridiculous. You might make business with the Torntons, but you never told. Everyone on the East Coast knew what happened if you did.

"And what if I don't?"

"You will bear the consequences" the man replied, utterly calm.

Maybe Tobias should have been afraid, like he was before. But he found that he wasn't.

There was something about this guy –

"You don't look like a killer". The words escaped him before he had thought about what he was going to say, but he realized he was right. This guy didn't look like someone who'd kill him in cold blood.

He should know.

He changed his mind when the stranger's eyes hardened and the room got colder, somehow.

"Looks can be deceiving – if one doesn't observe."

He huffed, somewhat impatiently – almost annoyed – and added, "I assume most people would not believe that you have killed fifty-four people over the last ten years either".

Tobias stared at him and wondered if he had indeed killed so many people.

He'd lost count somewhere in the twenties and hadn't bothered to try and keep up. It was his job, and he was good at it. He didn't have to think about the people he killed. What was important was that he got his money.

"It kind of goes with the job, hiding in plain sight" he finally replied.

"You are hardly as good at hiding as you think". The man glared at him again, before continuing, "Now, I would appreciate it if you gave me the information I need".

He couldn't believe how arrogant this guy was. He had kidnapped him, Tobias couldn't deny that, but he was talking down to a hit man, expecting him to do answer his questions.

On the other hand, he was rather sure that the guy would kill him without a second thought.

Why he was suddenly so sure, he had no idea.

"You don't have to worry about any consequences from the Torntons. They will be arrested once I have all the necessary data."

He laughed, because he had never heard a crazier statement.

"You. You are going to have the Torntons arrested. The ones who are responsible for more crimes than I can count. And you are going to do it alone. This is priceless".

"I have done many things in the course of my life you would not think possible".

It was calmly said, and Tobias couldn't help but believe him.

Still –

"So you are a vigilante, is that it?"

He didn't answer, and Tobias wondered what he had done to deserve being kidnapped by Batman.

He was a killer, but it was just a job. It wasn't like he was doing it out of some perverse wish to revenge himself on the World because of his bad childhood.

He didn't expect the guy to answer; he thought he'd either leave or insist he told him about the Torntons, but suddenly he said, "Better than a killer".

"I figured you were one to, considering you threatened my life a few minutes ago".

The guy flinched. He was obviously uncomfortable, and Tobias felt something like satisfaction.

The man's face turned into a blank mask again.

"There is a difference between us".

"Really? Because I kill people, and you kill people, and –"

"I remember everyone. Their names. Their faces. And I don't get paid for it".

Tobias should have commented that he sounded like a serial killer, but for some reason, he couldn't. The man's face, while closed off – There was something in his eyes again.

Something Tobias hadn't felt in a long time, if ever.

Regret.

Guilt.

He found himself wondering how many faces he actually did remember. Maybe three. And how many had he killed according to the guy? Fifty-four?

"And not getting paid makes it better?" he tried.

"No".

He was surprised that he admitted it so easily.

"But it means I had no choice".

"There is always a choice."

"That I couldn't see another way, then".

There was nothing Tobias could say, because he didn't know if it was true or not, and the conversation was starting to make him uncomfortable, for reasons he couldn't even name.

Because he didn't want to stare at the guy anymore, he looked down on his plate and realized something.

"Dude, is that wine?"

He had had enough to eat during the last few weeks, but he'd never had something that looked so – nice. A steak, and – pudding? And wine. Red wine. He wondered how the man knew he didn't drink white wine.

He wondered why he cared.

"It's Christmas".

Tobias stared at him again. He said it so matter-of-factly, as if it explained everything.

"Didn't think you'd be the type to care".

"I don't" he answered, not convincingly, "but I knew someone who did once."

There was barely-hidden pain in his voice, and Tobias really shouldn't comment on it –

"And you want to remember, even though it hurts?"

He really should learn how to keep his mouth shut. Then again, he was out of practice. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to someone this long.

"I have to remember because it hurts".

Tobias looked at him and suddenly there was a lump in his throat because not all Christmases with his mother had been bad, when he was very little and she wasn't sick, they had been –

He swallowed. There was a reason he didn't remember stuff like this.

Strangely enough, it was for the same reason this guy chose to remember.

It was all so –

It was all so strange.

Kidnapping him. Holding him in a cell. Never speaking to him before today, before he needed something –

On the other hand –

Guilt. Regret.

Christmas Dinner.

Tobias would never know what compelled him to do it, but he heard himself saying, "Old Tornton has this hideout he thinks no one knows about, and I only discovered it by chance – "

The guy listened, listened as Tobias told him everything, even about the people he'd killed for the Torntons (and why could he suddenly remember? He didn't want to remember, but somehow he did, and – did he want to remember? It was so difficult to say) without batting an eyelid.

When Tobias had finished, he nodded and turned around.

The hit man didn't know what possessed, but he all but shouted after the killer, "I haven't had a drink in weeks. I shouldn't drink a whole bottle by myself".

If he'd have thought about it, he wouldn't have believed that the guy would turn around and sit down in front of him, but that was precisely what he did.

They ate and drank in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable; in fact, it was the best Christmas dinner he'd had in years (which probably didn't say much, since Tobias hadn't had Christmas dinner in years).

He was more than a little drunk at the end of it – the guy had only had two glasses, leaving the rest of the bottle to him – but he was still aware enough to ask "Who are you?" when he stood up and walked towards the door.

The stranger didn't turn around, but drawled "Call me John" in a voice that sounded strangely deeper than the one he's used before, and left.

Eventually, Tobias fell asleep.

When he woke up the next day, the door, which he tried simply out of habit by now, was unlocked.

He found himself in an abandoned house at the outskirts of town, no one stopping him, and soon made his way back into the centre of the city.

He decided it would be safer to disappear for a while, so he did. Within two weeks, he read about the arrest of the whole Tornton clan.

He could have returned. He could have taken up his job again.

He didn't.

Instead, he decided to leave.

He didn't know where he was going, he didn't even know why, if he was being honest.

But if Tobias Marshall knew one thing, it was that he was leaving, that he was never looking back –

Except when it came to that one Christmas dinner with a very strange killer.

**Author's note: In the next chapter there will be fluff because it's Christmas. This one – I have no idea. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Here's the last chapter.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

John Watson had never believed in miracles.

Neither had he thought he would ever feel like crying out of gratitude because he found a liver and a spleen in the fridge.

But somehow, he had been granted a miracle, and almost sunk down on the floor praying because there were organs in the fridge of 221B, and all in the space of twenty-four hours.

Sherlock, naturally, had shown up at his door as if he hadn't been dead for three years, informed John that he needed his help to bring down Moriarty's right-hand man, and dashed off, expecting the doctor to follow him.

John did.

They fell back into their routine, Sherlock explaining what the man had done and how they could capture him, John making sure he survived the encounter.

Needless to say, once Moran was lying unconsciously on the floor and he had informed Greg where to pick him up, he started shouting. He hit Sherlock.

Eventually he hugged him.

Which was why Greg found John tending to Sherlock's bleeding nose while Moran was still lying unconscious at their feet. He didn't comment on it.

Sherlock assumed that John wanted him to move back in and filled their fridge with the aforementioned body parts not two hours later. John didn't contradict him.

Neither did he find it in himself to complain when he was woken that night by Sherlock playing the violin. He'd wished to hear its sounds once more often enough.

Maybe he had forgiven his best friend too easily; he was aware that most people would think so.

But Sherlock was back, and that was all that mattered.

Mary had been wonderful, everything John should have wanted, had wanted, in a way, but in another, it hadn't been enough, could never have been enough, not when he'd realized, right after Mike Stamford had introduced them, that Sherlock Holmes and he fit, that they would always be best friends and partners and flatmates, no matter how circumstances changed, and even if Mary had given him a family, he would still have laid awake at night, wondering why it was so quiet, no explosions, no violin concertos, and wished desperately to see him one more time, just one more time –

And now, he was back. Sherlock Holmes was alive and they lived in 221B and Mrs. Hudson kept bringing tea and biscuits, and Greg showed up at least three times a week, even if there were no cases.

And John was going to spend Christmas with a madman he'd been convinced he'd never see again.

The doctor had always been fond of Christmas.

Remembering Sherlock's reluctance the last time, he wasn't sure what to expect.

Sherlock had changed, he could see it in his eyes. He was still clever, he still deduced people as quickly as he ever had, he still insulted other human beings he considered idiots on a regular basis.

But –

He didn't make witnesses cry.

He brought John coffee and water and sometimes a sandwich when he felt his friend was exhausted.

He called Greg by his first name and always came when he called, even if it was "only a four".

He was polite to people like Dimmock and Henry Knight, who had defended him after his fake suicide.

He was still the same Sherlock, but somehow – he acted more human. "Acted" because John had always been convinced that the consulting detective was human, and had simply decided not to show it.

Ever since he had returned, though, he was showing it, in subtle ways, it was true, but he was still showing it, and John had to fight of a ridiculous feeling of pride every time he did.

All things considered, he should probably have seen it coming, but somehow, he didn't.

"It" being Sherlock's – John wouldn't call it enthusiasm, but acceptance – of celebrating Christmas like the year Irene Adler presumably died.

Mrs. Hudson obviously thought she would have to put up with more resistance, since she came into their flat with several boxes full of Christmas decorations on the first of December and looked at Sherlock like she expected him to roll his eyes and vacate the premises, only to find that he barely interrupted his violin playing to tell her not to decorate his chemistry set in the kitchen.

She shot John a look, and the doctor could only shake his head.

Sherlock Holmes would always find ways to surprise him.

He didn't help their landlady and John decorate the flat, but he didn't say anything against it, as his initial reaction had promised, and even continued playing actual music instead of making screeching sounds on his violin.

Come to think of it, John hadn't heard those since Sherlock's return, not even when Mycroft had come by.

When Mrs. Hudson was leaving, just before the door closed behind her, Sherlock put down the violin and called out, "I am still not wearing the antlers!"

They heard her laugh as she walked down the stairs.

John looked at Sherlock, unsure if he should ask.

Sherlock replied calmly to the unspoken question.

"I have found that the invention of a specific day to be merry and invite one's – friends – isn't as idiotic as I used to believe."

"Right" John answered.

He was silent for a few moments, knowing it was useless to push Sherlock.

The consulting detective started to elaborate his answer, as John had hoped he would.

"I might have – " he broke off before continuing, "I realized I missed certain things I never thought I would."

He didn't say what; he didn't say when. But John had a feeling he knew.

They didn't talk about what Sherlock had done while he had been away, although the doctor couldn't deny he was curious. But he knew that the three years must have been difficult for Sherlock, if the fact that he'd shown up thinner and paler than ever before was anything to go by, and he respected his best friend's wish not to talk about it.

They didn't talk anymore about it that evening either.

But John brought up a Christmas party the next day, and Sherlock, to his surprise (or maybe not – it was all still a bit confusing, which was only to be expected when your best friend came back from the dead, he figured) , had already decided that they would invite friends over on Christmas Eve as well as on Christmas Day, and he asked – actually asked – if he could invite Mycroft.

John would have been glad to say that he could forgive the British Government as easily as the World's only consulting detective had done and that he said yes without hesitation, but he didn't.

He managed to nod, though, and it seemed to be enough for Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson, of course, was ecstatic and mumbled something about "inviting her sister so she can finally meet you" and Sherlock just nodded.

Considering this was Sherlock Holmes, this was practically him telling her that he'd be happy to meet her sister, and she brought up a whole cake this afternoon.

The guest list proved to be surprisingly long.

They decided they would give a Christmas Dinner on the 24th. Aside from Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, Sherlock wanted to invite Greg and Molly. John wasn't surprised that he had noticed that the invitation of one would necessary include the other, but he was surprised that he hadn't commented on it until now.

Of course, Mycroft would get an invitation as well. Since he had already accepted the elder Holmes to be part of their company, John didn't think the consulting detective would elaborate why he wanted to have his brother at 221B, but he did.

"He sent me information".

It wasn't much, but it was enough to make John realize that perhaps, Mycroft regretted what had happened.

Since Sherlock seemed to be in a generous mood, he asked if it wouldn't be nice to have Mike and his wife over for dinner as well, and the other man simply replied "I am sure that they will come, if they find a babysitter for David".

John smiled. Apparently Mike and Sue having a son whose full name was "David Sherlock Stamford" was important enough to be saved in his friend's mind palace.

The doctor felt ashamed when he realized he hadn't mentioned Harry yet. She was spending Christmas Eve with her newest girlfriend – who he hadn't met yet, but probably should – and he decided he would invite her over on Christmas Day.

Sherlock thought the idea a good one, if only "because two annoying siblings might cancel each other out".

Once all invitations had been accepted – Sherlock had taken it upon himself to tell Mycroft, leaving John to call all their other friends, naturally – he started wondering what to get Sherlock for Christmas.

It had been difficult enough all these years ago, on their first Christmas; but now, when the consulting detective had fulfilled him the greatest wish he'd ever had –

What was there to give him, that could even adequately express the gratitude John was feeling?

Mrs. Hudson, as could be expected, was buying them both lots of tea and shirts for Sherlock and the doctor was ready to bet, new jumpers for John; Molly was hoarding body parts for the consulting detective and several hard to come by medical books for his friend; from several allusions and half-sentences, he considered it certain that Greg was giving them new pistols of uncertain origins.

But John –

It wasn't until he was walking through the city (after having bought Mycroft's favourite brandy because Sherlock had delegated the task to buy a present for his brother), desperate for ideas, that he saw it.

Or rather, him.

He was well aware that the deal might be shady, but he doubted Sherlock would care.

He left his present with Mrs. Hudson, who immediately put it in a cupboard because "she wouldn't look at the thing" and took the brandy up to Sherlock.

The consulting detective was playing his violin and didn't turn around to deduce him. John went into the kitchen to make tea and the day and the ones that followed passed without mentioning that the doctor had bought a Christmas present for his friend.

He didn't know if Sherlock had bothered buying something for his blogger, but he didn't care.

They had a wonderful dinner on Christmas Eve, all things considered; Mrs. Hudson was full of her sister, who would arrive the next day, Greg and Molly revealed that they were going to move in together, Mike and Sue showed pictures of their son, and Sherlock and Mycroft talked without insulting each other every two minutes. Since he had witnessed this miracle, John managed to be civil to the elder Holmes too.

He went to bed a happy man that night, looking forward to tomorrow.

His mood changed when he woke up and heard the deafening silence in the flat, felt it in his bones.

Sherlock wasn't there.

Naturally, he panicked.

He tried not to; forced himself not to call the consulting detective, he wasn't his landlady, after all, made tea, sat down on his chair to await his return.

Thankfully, he did return soon enough.

"Where were you?" John asked immediately.

"I solved the robbery case that Greg complained about" Sherlock replied and went into the kitchen to take some tea.

His blogger laughed happily, because he couldn't help it. He had wanted to help Greg; he had gone to the Yard in the middle of the night for that purpose.

"Donovan was unusually polite" he drawled, wandering back into the living room. "I wished her a merry Christmas".

In the next moment, he almost dropped his cup because John hugged him.

He awkwardly returned the hug with one arm and looked after his blogger, frowning, as he darted off into his room.

John came back with a skull wrapped with a bowtie in his hands.

"Mrs. Hudson brought it up this afternoon. It's Christmas Day after all, even if it's early. Here" he put it in Sherlock's hands.

"Didn't seem right that he should be alone when we aren't".

Sherlock smiled as he realized the skull was that of a middle aged white male, smaller than the first one.

Instead of thanking John, he went into his room and came back with a carefully wrapped parcel.

When his blogger found the book he'd had printed especially – "The Blog of Doctor John H. Watson", containing all his entries, from the day he'd started to write, to the latest case they had solved, he swallowed before looking up.

"I'd hug you, but I already did that. Play something?" he asked, his eyes sparkling, and Sherlock complied, answering his smile with one of his own.

And so the two friends settled down to wait for the light of dawn, anticipating the day of celebration, and all the others, that lay before them.

**Author's note: This is more along the line of "didn't think to spend Christmas with Sherlock again", but I felt it fit.**

**What would Christmas be without fluff?**

**All that's left is to wish you a merry Christmas; I wish you will spend it with those who mean the most to you, that you will laugh and be happy; that you smile as you look back, and hope as you look forward; and that you will make wonderful memories on this most blessed day of all. **

**Hekate**


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